


A Taste of Summer

by Delphi



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: Food, Healing, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-11
Updated: 2008-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer sparks cravings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Summer

The memory of gooseberries. For ten years it had existed as a broken circuit: a flash of green, the bubbling of a pot on the boil, the sweet aroma of fruit syrup. Fleeting, retreating from the tip of his tongue the moment he attempted to name it, and gone in a blink when he tried to remember just what it was he'd been remembering.

Now, however, on a quiet night in his newly recovered workshop, it abruptly connected. Something sparked. Context. Craving.

An eddy of warm air swirled in through the tower window, buoying the thought to the surface. Summer had finally returned to the North Island, slowly at first, in fits and starts as if nature herself had lost her memory in all that darkness, and then in rich, full bloom. All through the land, all across the O.Z., the new season seemed to lighten every brow despite everything they had so recently left behind. Even the nights were gentle, the breeze carrying with it the soft scent of grass and pine and a distant sweetness.

A flash of green...

Ambrose bolted upright. "One pound gooseberries, five ounces elderflower cordial, two egg yolks, one teaspoon arrowroot, five ounces milk, two tablespoons sugar, five ounces cream!"

Outside, an owl hooted, seemingly unimpressed.

"Oh, what do you know?" He laughed aloud, marvelling over the memory, practically sinking into it: the coppice outside the town walls in the place where he had grown up on the mainland, sunny and hot at noontime. Girls giggling in the distance, at him, perhaps, but the sting had long since been blunted—and it didn't matter anyhow because the world was ripe and fresh and he was young and barefooted in the warm grass.

His stomach fluttered, and oh, he could almost taste it...

He riffled through the teetering stacks of paper on his desk and found his pocket watch. It was a little early for a midnight snack. But then, he considered, he was hardly ever early for anything, and didn't that deserve a reward? It certainly did. He set down his pen and marched to the door and then down the long, spiralling stairway to the central landing.

A decade ago, a night like this might have seemed almost suffocating with its silence, but ever since his return, all the little noises of habitation sang to him. There was the soft hum of magic and machinery, the crickets chirruping in harmony outside, and the steady thrum of life itself. A world of difference lay between a sleeping house and an empty one.

His ears perked up at a faint whirring, and he leaned over the railing, peering down into the warm lamplight of the reception hall. "Mattie...psst, Mattie."

The clockwork servant halted in her path. She craned her neck with a subtle click, a hand on one hip and the other occupied with a basket of laundry. "And what do you want?"

He crossed his arms on the railing, then rested his chin on his arms and smiled his very most charming smile. "Do we have any gooseberries?"

"Gooseberries," she echoed flatly, sounding no more impressed than the owl. "I don't suppose you've tried looking in the pantry?"

"The pantry." His smile flickered, just for an instant. Static in the works. "Of course. Mattie, you're a genius."

He pretended not to hear her scoff and continued down to the ground floor, no longer in quite so much of a hurry. The kitchen was dark and empty, all traces of the night's dinner preparations scrubbed away, leaving only the gleam of pristine polish and the sharp smell of vinegar. He searched through the cupboards and the icebox, putting his loot into an empty egg basket. Then he opened the cellar door, hesitating at the top of the earthen steps as the light below flickered on.

It was funny. He remembered suddenly that he hadn't been afraid of the cellar in his boyhood home. Only, he had known that children were meant to be, and so he'd pretended that he was so that his mother wouldn't send him down on errands too often and his father wouldn't suspect him of getting into the brown sugar. Now he shivered, however, looking down at the long row of sturdy oak doors with glinting steel locks.

Azkadellia...

...no, the _witch_.

The witch had once kept more than sugar down here.

He wet his lips but couldn't quite manage a whistle as he descended into the storerooms. The underground chill raised goosebumps down his arms, and his shadow played tricks with the corner of his eye. He hurriedly scanned over the baskets and jars, sidestepping gardening tools and peeking into barrels. Raspberries, blackberries, snowberries...

"Aha!" He lit up as he uncovered the mountain of plump green fruit. He looked around for an empty container but found none and settled for untucking his shirt for a makeshift basket. He loaded up, giving the treasure a shake—one pound, three ounces.

In his defence, he did not _run_ back up the steps. It was in fact merely a brisk, efficient clip, and it was only because of the low light in the kitchen that he promptly barrelled into something soft and large that let out a startled "Oof!"

Ambrose bounced, wheeling around in midair and managing to land with two feet and only a handful of gooseberries on the ground. He blinked, adrenaline momentarily spiking. Then he beamed—_breathed_—his face flushing hot in mingled embarrassment and happy surprise.

"Cain! I thought you wouldn't be back until tomorrow."

Wyatt Cain was a sight for sore eyes: slayer of shadows and hero of the kitchen. He was fresh off the road from Central City, his pack still slung over his shoulder and his boots a dusty yellow. If it had been him tracking dirt into the kitchen, Mattie would have been after him with the broom, but she had a soft spot for Cain.

"We finished up early." Cain crouched down to pick up the rogue gooseberries. "What's all this for?"

He warmed as Cain looked up at him, their hands brushing for an instant as the berries were dropped back in with the rest. "Gooseberry Fool."

Cain's mouth quirked at the corner. "Who are you calling fool, headcase?"

Ambrose laughed despite himself. "I'm glad you're back," he said, and meant it, and then had mercy when Cain straightened up and looked away. "Were you looking for dinner? There should be some leftovers around here somewhere..."

Cain shook his head. "I just figured you'd still be up."

Oh. Ambrose paused at that, a small smile playing at his lips and the warmth of the kitchen chasing away the last of his chill. Cain always seemed to see him first when he came back from his mediating in the city, even before he reported to the queen. Of course, Ambrose was usually in his tower, or in the library, or in the gardens with D.G., which were more obvious places to be.

For the first time, however, it occurred to him to wonder whether Cain had some sort of tin man instinct for knowing where someone was, or if he actually came looking for him every time.

'Thank you,' he wanted to say, because sometimes...he really did need to be looked for. But he didn't want Cain to get all huffy and look at him like he was weirder than he was entitled to be. So, all he said was: "Come up?"

Truthfully, he didn't expect Cain to accept. It was late, and he'd been travelling, and all in all it was entirely a Wyatt Cain thing to turn down invitations.

"All right."

Fortunately, it was also a Wyatt Cain thing to be contrary.

Cain picked up his pack and took the basket of eggs and cream and whatnot besides, giving him the gentlest of shoves. "Lead on."

Up they went. Back in the comfortable nest of his workshop, Ambrose took out his pots and set up a burner while Cain took off his coat and hat. He watched him poke suspiciously through his things, following the path of Cain's fingertips over the spines of his books; a length of strung wire was plucked with a twang. It didn't bother him as much as it might have.

"I forgot how much I like to cook. Art and science—it's one of those little miracles where the sum is greater than its parts. I mean, you can eat all the flour and sugar and milk and eggs you like, but it's never going to be as good as a cake..."

Cain looked over his shoulder at him, one eyebrow crooked in amusement.

Ambrose tried to remember what he had last used the vacuum mixer for and decided it would probably be safe for whipping cream. He heard the first bubble pop in the pot and smiled. He did like cooking, the preparation almost as much as the product. The way everything came together in messy accord and the smell of something good slowly filling the room. He even liked the wait, coming to sit at the edge of his desk when everything was mixed, idly swinging his feet.

"How was the city?"

Cain joined him, leaning against the desk and peering out the window. "Hot."

He couldn't help himself—he nudged over just a little. His knee bumped against Cain's leg. "It was hot here too."

Cain didn't move away. "No, it wasn't. There's frost on the mountain."

"Well, it was hot for here. Our summers are short."

Apparently there wasn't much to say to that. They were both quiet for several minutes, the only sounds the simmering of the pot and the faint rustling of the trees outside. Ambrose didn't have as much patience for silence as he used to. It reminded him of the sound of a half-empty head, and that was perhaps the only reason he said what he said next.

"It's why I invented the Sun Seeder, you know."

Cain looked over at him.

"A little more sunshine, a little more warmth, a little more at harvest time. I thought a little could go a long way." He laughed softly, and it sounded more bitter than he would have liked it. "If I'd only known how right I was."

"None of what happened was your fault." Just like that. Cain said it like it was fact, and there was no arguing facts with him.

Ambrose shrugged. No one had blamed him. Not Cain or D.G., not the queen or Consort Ahamo. They hadn't needed to. "Maybe. I was still wrong to try it, though. Everything has its time. I see that now."

Cain stiffened, his shoulders going tense and his jaw tightening up. Steel on the outside, with all that hurt inside. It broke his heart sometimes.

He used to be a lot better at shutting up when he should have. "I have to see it. Because if I don't, what were the last ten years for?"

He slid to his feet and went to check on the gooseberries. "So maybe," he continued firmly, giving the syrup a stir before spooning it into a bowl and adding the custard in appropriate measures, "we're just supposed to enjoy summers while they're here. And when it's cold, we look back fondly on the last one, and we think about the one that's just around the corner."

He took a bite, the creamy custard melting on his tongue and the warm gooseberry syrup zinging tartly. His knees nearly buckled. "Mmm. Oh, this is as good as I remembered it. You have to try some."

Cain shook his head. "No thanks."

Contrary, of course. "Suit yourself."

He returned to his perch on the desk, and this time it was Cain who closed the distance, bracing a hand on the table behind him. His arm wasn't quite around him. It was just...there. Close enough that Ambrose could feel the warmth of it very nearly touching his back. Close enough that he could smell what kind of soap Cain used.

His stomach gave another hungry twist. He carefully loaded up the perfect spoonful: two parts gooseberries to three parts custard. "One bite?"

Cain shook his head again.

Ambrose sighed and ate it himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cain glancing at his mouth. Another glance, then another as he savoured each bite. Twelve perfect spoonfuls in all.

He ran the edge of his spoon around the bowl to get every last dab of custard and then gazed out the window into the darkness, considering things with great thought. What was it his tutor had once told him? 'Better to keep silent and be thought a fool, Ambrose, than open your mouth and remove all doubt.' It had seemed very wise at the time. But it was getting late, and Cain was still here when he could be in bed, alone or with anybody else, or back in Central City.

Something clicked. "I _am_ a fool."

If it was a strange outburst, Cain didn't seem to notice—or he was used to it by now. He only snorted. "Yeah, but you're the smartest fool I know."

A smile tugged at Ambrose's lips, and he looked down, running his thumb nervously around the rim of the bowl. When he finally had the words together, he spoke very quietly. Carefully.

"Aren't you ever hungry, Cain?"

It was several long, painful heartbeats before Cain replied, just as carefully, "Sometimes."

Ambrose set aside his bowl and slid to his feet. He turned, so close to Cain that he could feel the heat radiating from him. His hand slipped under Cain's coat, curling around his hip. Cain let out a hard breath, and then his arm was around him, and their brows pressed together.

Every inch of him leapt awake. Oh, he could almost taste it...

"Lock the door."

It took him a moment to understand, utterly distracted by Cain's lips moving just a hair's breadth over his cheek. "No one's going to come up here."

"Lock it."

He knew that tone. He drew back reluctantly, cheeks flushed and smile crooked. "Yes, Mr. Tin Man, sir."

He darted to the door and quickly locked it. No one in, no one out. Then he walked very primly back and sank to his knees, his hands just a little clumsy in their eagerness as he attempted Cain's belt. Cain's hands joined his, buckle open, fly down.

Something he'd discovered since the other half of him had been returned: while there were some things you just never forgot, there were others that were brand new every time, things that never stopped being so exciting that you could almost die from it. He touched Cain through his shorts, feeling him harden, hearing his breath catch. Shorts down, licking his lips, a jolt of electricity shooting through him when Cain's hand curved around the back of his neck.

A long, slow lick. No more cream and tart berries, but the smell of musk and a tantalizing hint of salt. He glanced up at Cain, just for an instant, tingling all over at the hot look in his eyes. Then he opened for it, the first smooth glide of skin against his lips making him twitch. He heard Cain's breathing roughen around the edges, the buck of his hips making Ambrose's hands come up in reflex.

Cain muttered a curse, and Ambrose felt the muscles under his hands quiver. He was hungry all over again, starving for the eager nudge against his throat, the hand tightening at the back of his neck, the maddeningly gentle caress of a thumb rubbing back and forth over the end of his scar.

Rhythm—you either had it or you didn't. He let himself get lost in it, drowning in the sensation. A little more, a little more each time, Cain urging him closer. He nearly shook, his fingertips digging hard into Cain's thighs, certain as the minutes slipped by that if he dared put a hand on himself, even to unbutton his pants, he'd come on the spot.

"Your mouth..."

That was all the warning he got before Cain's hand clenched hard and he felt the first faint pulse against his tongue. He let out a soft, helpless moan as he swallowed, that fierce hunger shooting arrows straight through him. Every last drop, riding out Cain's long shiver. Letting him slip with a wicked, wet sound. Resting his cheek against Cain's hip until he could breathe again.

He looked up at him and smiled. "Hi."

Cain regarded him patiently. "Hi." Then he hitched up his pants and had him pinned on the floor in a heartbeat.

Ambrose blinked as Cain's fingers flew over his buttons, opening up his shirt and laying him bare. His nipples tightened in the sudden draught. "Did you ever take piano lessons?"

"No."

His pants were yanked down, and he yelped. "Careful—"

He broke off the moment Cain laid hands on him. Rough, warm hands rasping over his chest, over his hip, up the inside of his thigh. Wrapping around him in a firm grip that made his toes curl.

"Oh...oh, yes, please."

His eyelids fluttered half-shut as Cain's mouth burned his skin, a scorching brand at his throat, the scrape of teeth over his nipples. He swallowed a whimper. "Oh, that's good, that's really, really good..."

Cain paused, bracing over him. "Do you ever shut up?"

Ambrose laughed dizzily, perilously close to a giggle. "No." He refrained from pointing out that what he'd just finished doing hadn't involved any talking, though really, he was more than happy to demonstrate again any time Cain wanted him to shut up. "I used to be quiet, honestly, you wouldn't believe how quiet—"

Make that two things that could keep him from talking. Cain's mouth pressed hard against his own, nearly bruising him, making him melt and leaving him gasping when he pulled away. Then it moved down, his stomach, his hip...

"Oh!"

Poise went out the window—it had been too long for that. He found himself hanging on by the finest thread, trying to wring out every second he could before it snapped. His whole body pounded with the pleasure of it, everything wet and blazingly hot. He clutched at Cain's shoulders, stroking his hair, trying to get a grip and failing. "You really should grow your hair out..."

Cain _growled_ around him.

"Ah! Shutting up now."

It was still easier said than done. He bit his lip, his own desperate little noises fading in and out around the hammering of his pulse. He arched helplessly only to have Cain push him down hard, making him surrender to the rushing wave that overtook him.

"Cain...I'm..."

He never had the chance to finish, nearly swooning as his pleasure twisted up and broke. His vision swam as he shivered sweetly over the peak, tumbling down, trembling, on the other side of it. He glowed, tasting sunshine.

"...mmp."

He didn't move when Cain withdrew—just let him go, and sure enough, he didn't go far, lying down beside him with a faint 'huh'.

When he could move again, he stretched. He considered his half-naked state and decided that nudging off his shoes and kicking down his trousers was easier than setting himself to rights. He looked over at Cain, who was ostensibly thinking about the ceiling, though he looked awfully smug about it. "Do you know what would be perfect right now?"

Cain paused, then glanced over—with entirely too much suspicion, if you asked him. "What?"

Ambrose licked his lips. "A cold roast beef sandwich. With beetroot."

No reply came for several moments, long enough that he began to suspect Cain had fallen asleep.

"...I could go for a sandwich. Hold the beets."

He grinned. "Hold the beets."

The distant sound of his ticking watch lulled him down, his heartbeat calming, his blood quieting. His hand nudged against Cain's, and their fingers loosely entwined. A new memory began to burn a path from the breeze gently ruffling his hair through the lush heat in his limbs to the sound of Cain's steady breathing beside him.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. This was what summer was for.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Taste of Summer [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880749) by [blackglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackglass/pseuds/blackglass), [Dr_Fumbles_McStupid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Fumbles_McStupid/pseuds/Dr_Fumbles_McStupid)




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